


Blue Book of Melleth: In the Houses of Healing

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2006-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:02:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The badly injured Faramir is brought there and his wounds tended by an old retainer and a beloved companion.<br/>Conversations by his sick-bed reveal part of a shared past of destiny bringing together those fated to act upon each other's lives.</p><p>Note:  A somewhat AU vision of Tolkien's Middle-earth and use of non-canon events and OCs... there is no Eowyn here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Finding

**Author's Note:**

> A somewhat AU vision of Tolkien's Middle-earth and use of non-canon events and OCs... there is no Eowyn here.

This northern ranger went straight to his bed, even though I could not find him.  She knew where he was without needing to ask, among the dozens, no – hundreds of injured men.  The Healers had no time to distinguish; Steward's son or not, he rested on a truckle bed on the floor.  I barely recognised him, but she knew.  Under the soot, and smoke and grime-soaked oil, she knew my Lord Faramir.

Oh my poor bairn!  What did he do to you?  I confess, I cried out to see him so… so damaged.  She spun around with a hiss, a regular she-cat.

"You were the amah."

Not question, but statement.  I nodded.

"We have much to do."

She tried to gather him into her arms, but he cried aloud; so scorched he was, all one side and the other... black blood stained his chest and shoulder, laced with fresh red seeping through to stain his thin shirt.

"Madam, wait – we need porters," I said.

I put out my hand to touch her arm; I thought she would near have had my hand away – her blade was so quick.  An elf-blade, curved, silver-bright, but stained now to the hilt, even to her elbow with orcish gore.

She stared at me, and I stared back – if I could face down Lord Denethor's wrath – I could face down this one!  At least that's what I thought then.  Now?  Hindsight is a wonderful thing – now I would not have dared come between them – and if I say so myself, then things might have gone a different path.

I saw Mauwen's son, "Come – we need some muscle here!  Come – now!"

He shambled over to us – a simple boy, but docile and strong.

"You leave the Steward laying in the muck, boy?"

"The Steward… " his eyes were round as saucepan lids.

"Lord Denethor is dead.  Get another back.  We must move his son – immediately!"

I'm at my best when commanding men; give them a firm, decisive lead and they will fall in and follow…

All this time she knelt at his head.  Her hand shook as she smoothed the hair back from his face.  Her fingers left a streak of white skin showing beneath the grime – and it was so white.  I had to look twice to see if his chest still rose.  I knelt at his side in time to hear her whisper.

"Don't leave me! Don't you go!"

She said it in the Sindar tongue of course.  Other things I didn't catch she spoke of also.  I held my peace; we all need a few secret skills, something to gain a little advantage from if need be.  My Lady Finduilas knew some elvish phrases; we spoke it together almost as a game, a few private commands and replies between us, so to speak.  People forget it was not only those of noble birth who fled Numenor.  There were those who sailed the ships, cooked the food – aye, and like as not, cleaned the privies – we too can trace back our ancient lineage, now tainted and marred by lesser lines 'tis true, but – I know my blood.  We too once called ourselves elf-friends with every right.

As we crouched in silence, Lord Faramir slipped further away, out of consciousness and nearer the beyond.  Two hefty lads arrived, even as Mauwen herself fussed into view.

"Such a thing," she lamented, "To leave our lord so…"

"We move him now" the Northerner announced.  Again - no question, just a statement.  "He needs air.  His lungs are filled with smoke.  Bring pillows to raise him.  We must find a room with wide windows – away from this… stench."

I hadn't really brought it to mind until then, I was used to such.  But rooms and corridors filled with injured soldiers?  At best they've pissed themselves, at worst - well, spilled guts from belly-wounds are an offensive smell like no other.  Sulphur lamps were lit to mask the reek of death, and in trying to hide it with the odour of rotten eggs and dried lavender… the place was a cacophony of smells... and sounds.  Lamentable groans and screams came from the surgeon's rooms.  I remember thinking, I must fetch some of my own stock of poppy-juice for him; they obviously were running short.

"His room.  Can we not use his room?" she said.

"Too far, Madam – for the time it might take a Healer to run to the Houses and back, we could lose him."

She cocked her head at "we", but I cared not.  I'd smacked his bottom when he was a mischievous little boy – and before that I'd birthed his poor brother and slapped him so he'd take that first breath.  Mind you, that one had scarcely needed a clout; he'd come out roaring like he owned the place!

"The student's library," I remembered, "In the tower room, down beyond the healer's hall.  Its windows are wide and face away from the Pelennor.

"Lead!"

She had a way with her it must be said.  I didn't question, I went – and our sorry procession trailed after.

The main room wasn't all that big, but there was a fire-place, and several tables and chairs.  She swept the first table over with barely so much as a flick of the wrist.  'She's strong this one', I thought, 'and she means business.'

"You…" she pointed at the lads, "…I want a bed brought up.  Hot water, cloths, kindling for the fire, a kettle, fresh bandages… "

Mauwen made the mistake of interrupting her.

"I should be doing this down… "

I never saw the knife 'till its blood- blackened blade flashed to Mauwen's throat.

"…stairs" the startled woman finished weakly.

 "Madam and I will tend my Lord…"  This time the ranger tolerated my hand on her arm.  "Go fetch what we need.  Away!"

The round-eyed boys milled like sheep; Mauwen gurgled something unheard and dropped a curtsey – I'm not sure who to, but I fancy it was as much for me as anything.  About time too.

They left and she proceeded to break up chairs for kindling.  She was very handy at it to – strong arms and wrists.  I peeled back his sodden blanket and wiped a corner over his face.   He radiated heat, as if the fire still burnt under his skin.

"How does he?"

She didn't halt from smashing chairs; better that than breaking foolish necks I suppose.  I hesitated, which gave her pause.

"Not good, Madam…"

"I am not 'Madam'!"

She turned to break another chair, but not before I'd seen the tears trickle down her face. 

 "You may call me Ranger, but I am not …" Crash - the chair splintered, "…your Madam!"  She picked the frame up, wrenching it apart. "Or 'Lady', or any such… ".  The shattered chair was thrown into the fireplace.  "Just… Ranger!"  

I'd thought her skin-darkened by the sun, but then I realised how pale she was as the tears washed the battle-grime from her cheek... near as pale as he.

"Everyone has a name Ma… Ranger…" I said gently.

She paused to take a great breath then; before she stared me straight in the eye.  After a moment she said quietly.

"My name is… Loss."

I nodded slowly in acknowledgement; there are those who don't realise the power given in telling your true name, but I do.

Just then, he coughed hard, a great wracking, heaving sound.  His breathing had been rasping and shallow when we found him, now I clearly saw why; black spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth, his lungs were tainted.  She rushed to his side, lifting his shoulders, gathering him into her arms.  He just flopped like a raggedy-doll – oh my poor bairn!

"We must clear his lungs. Steam – he needs to breathe the vapour to dislodge the ash and smoke."

Even as his head lolled, a glob of black drool escaped his lips to dribble onto her shoulder.  She ignored it.

"Help me?" she whispered.

She did not have to ask twice; I know devotion when I see it.

"Hold him fast!" I said, and strode away to find what kept them from bringing what we needed.


	2. The Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The badly injured Faramir is brought there and his wounds tended by an old retainer and a beloved companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat AU vision of Tolkien's Middle-earth and use of non-canon events and OCs... there is no Eowyn here.

I hurried back to them as soon as I'd procured supplies.  I'd loaded Mauwen's lad down with blankets, kettles, ewers and the solemn promise to return with a good bed and palliasse, even if he had to dismantle his own.

Mauwen trailed after me, determined not to miss aught, but since she'd found clean bandages, water, good herbs… I tolerated her wittering at my back..

The fire crackled almost merrily when we returned; the varnish on the chair-legs caught and flared blue, sending odd, flickering shadows across the floor.  She had pulled down a curtain to make a temporary bed in front of the hearth.  She must have dragged him there, for now she'd stripped off his oil-soaked shirt and trews, even his breeks.  Oil and sweat sheened his body; the coughing had opened up the unstitched wounds.  Dark bruises, livid wounds and bright blood puddle down his ribs and across his naked belly to lie clotted in the dark hairs that trailed up from his groin and down his thighs.  I heard Mauwen gasp at the back of me; she all but dropped the pitcher in her arms.

The she-elf showed no such embarrassment to be found kneeling over a naked man.

"Give it to me" she commanded, holding out her hands for the pitcher of warm water, "we must clean him." 

I grabbed clean towels from Mauwen's numb fingers and joined her at his side.  Her touch was quick and sure; it was mine that trembled over his poor, wounded body.  All the one side of him was scorched to livid redness; the worst, a patch all along his forearm was blistered and weeping.  Across his thigh an axe wound, and another at the chest, left their distinctive long open wheals.  The bloody edges were almost chewed in their rawness, where his mail had deflected the blow, but not stopped injury.  In the leg muscle I could still see metal links forced into the wound and neglected by the men who stripped off his armour.  A war-hammer had been deflected by the pauldron, but it left his shoulder darkest purple; aye, and doubtless had broken the collar-bone.  The next worst was the arrow he'd taken in the rib.  The mail and leathers had stopped much of it, but a dark, triangular hole showed where it had penetrated.  The wound bled freely; not always a bad thing, it takes any poison out of the body.  There were more cuts and scuffs of blows taken through armour, but none were life-threatening.  We sopped him with water to wash the ash, blood and grime away as gently as possible, and I'll own to adding my own tears to the mix.

Mauwen made a shrewish mouth, protesting it wasn't seemly for such a young woman to tend a naked soldier.  My 'young' madam retorted she'd tended more naked soldiers than Mauwen had eaten lamprey pies!  At that Mauwen had the grace to blush; her waistline gives ample credence to her fondness for lamprey pie!  Before I had to referee a fight, I banished Mauwen to find a healer to come and stitch his wounds.  Lord Denethor can have allowed no proper treatment; his gashes were only bandaged in a temporary fashion.  I set water to heat on the hearth, while the northern one swaddled him in the blankets.  My lamb, moving him had at least roused him back to us a little, but all the while he shuddered and coughed, fit to turn his lungs inside out, and that caused more bleeding.  Between us we raised him, leastways, she lifted him and she took her place at his back, legs stretched either side of him, supporting his body against her to ease his ragged breathing.  She'd set aside, her buff-coat and quiver and knives; without them, she looked more like a slender maid in men's clothing, not a seasoned warrior, and a ranger to boot.  As each wracking cough tore through him, it tore through her as well.  I could do little but pat her hand as she rocked him in her despair.

With the water steaming I bought a bowl and held it before him so he'd inhale the vapour, but his lungs could scarce cope, so shallow did he breathe.  His head drooped forward.  It was difficult for her to hold up his body and cup his head back so he'd not scald himself. 

"Have you knowledge of the King?"

"The Dunadan?"

"Find him – he will have come to the healer's rooms by now.  Find athelas, and bring them both here"

So she knew the old tradition too. I was reluctant to leave, but if anything would help my bairn…

First - athelas, that was easy.  My Lady's garden – some had scorned that she grew 'weeds', but she and I knew their uses.  There would still be patches under the shelter of the far wall; its roots run tenacious and deep.  For all my Lord Denethor had sought to clear the ground, many of the herbs live on.  After she died he tried to destroy the garden, he himself took a sledge-hammer to the shell-walled grotto.  Grief made him do it I suppose; he felt if he could ravage the very earth, if he could spend his anger freely… then, his anger was hot, he raged incoherently against circumstance.  

Later, he grew cold, cold and hard as stone.  He would have locked the garden and thrown away the key.  I stopped him – the babes need a green space to run, I told him.  Unless we ride down to the lower circles and back three, four times a day, how would they get it?  I thought he would strike me down then and there, but the babes' faces turned his anger.  

"Have it," he told me, "but never let them bring aught out of it.  I will have no decorations of weeds in their rooms!"  

He turned his back on it and never entered there again.

Young Boromir I had to persuade to venture in; he wanted his father's approval and would follow the Steward's lead.  Little Faramir was too small to know any different, though I'd to cope with many tears the first few times he went there and could not find his mama.  He asked for her often in those first days, then accepted that 'Mother's Garden' was the nearest he could come to her now.  I kept the key to the walled garden.  It grew wild and rough, but was a suitable place for boys to play.  I showed Faramir the plants that had field uses and he delighted in watching the birds with me, and soon started to draw them.  Boromir was more inclined to use them for target practise with knives and arrows, smuggled sharp weapons he wasn't allowed to use in the practise ring.  But I can still see his tear-stained face the first time he killed a robin with a thrown knife – it brought home to him that death has no release.  He was so contrite, poor love; we buried the little body before Faramir could see it and my big brave Boromir swore me to secrecy – it must have been just before his eleventh birthday.

I still had a key on my chatelaine.  In the dusk I searched for the pale leaves.  It was early for new growth, but I found some tucked in the warm fold of the stone wall.  It's a plant hard to eradicate, a single piece will root again, unless it be pulled completely from the soil.  In the healer's rooms I followed the murmur of rumour and gossip that trailed behind the tall, dark-haired man in the patched, shabby clothes.  He was the one.  I saw him at some distance, but I knew him as surely as this she-elf ranger knew my bairn.  As he knelt beside an injured man, I touched his arm; he looked up.  Those same grey eyes, so tired, but clear, his face begrimed by battle; he still had that look of old.  I bowed my head and curtsied.   Before he could speak; I blurted out.

"My Lord Faramir has need of you."

"Faramir… ?"

"Come Sir.  We need haste."

He stood from the man's bed he knelt by, pausing to lay a hand on his forehead,

"Courage," he said before turning to me.  He was about to speak

"We have great need of you, Sir."

 His eyes widened a little, the question on his lips remaining unspoken, but I showed him the apron of fresh athelas I'd gathered.   Instead, he nodded and smiled.  "You come well prepared – Mistress."

"With need my Lord – please to come quickly my Faramir is near death."

His face took a serious turn and he pointed me to lead.

She knelt at the bed-side.  The carpenters had done their job in my absence.  She jumped up when she saw the Dunadan, greeting him in elvish, too soft for me to gather more than a few words, but 'need' and 'death' and 'athelas' I heard.  He hastened to the bed.  Faramir's face was slick with sweat, glistening in the fire-light; his skin was flushed unhealthily from the fire within, as his body shuddered, still wracked with coughing, though even that were much weaker now.

"Give me the herb!  Bring boiling water and a bowl." 

He commanded in a quiet voice which brooked no argument.  I thrust some leaves into his hands; he chewed a wad before spitting into his palm.  He bent over the bed, enfolding Faramir's lips under his own and blew into his mouth.  In that first instance, the Dunadan drew back, touching his lips with trembling fingers; his eyes flared wide, I fancied perhaps he remembered another's lips he'd kissed … then he steeled himself and bent again to change breath with my bairn.  He chewed fresh leaf and holding onto Faramir's shoulders, breathed again and again into his mouth, until the rasping breathing eased.  Then he held his hand, stroking it and murmuring words too quiet for me to hear.  The athelas in the kettle filled the room with uncommon sweetness, more than I've smelt from the herb in many years.  I felt even my fears calmed.  She didn't take her gaze from the Dunadan, just bit her lip; her eyes filled with slow tears, but even she relaxed in the end.  I could see her shoulders loosen as the strain was released from her.

Faramir opened his eyes.  He focussed on the Dunadan and gave a weak smile, not much, but enough to show he was back with us again.  The Dunadan kissed his mouth properly this time, a kiss of grace, before he stood to leave us.

"I will return," he said, then he strode quickly away, but not before I'd seen his eyes were full with unshed tears.  She got up, hesitating between needing to stay and wanting to follow him.

"Go Ranger, if you wish.  I'm here"

She smiled then, the first I'd seen cross her face.  She paused briefly at the door, reluctant to leave.  I nodded, "We will be here – Loss, when you return."  

She dipped her head gravely, before hurrying to catch him.

I tended my bairn.  I took cloths and soaked them in the athelas water, stripping back the blankets so I could sponge his body.  His flesh still burned within.  I stripped off the damp breech-clout, the coughing takes away bodily control.  I washed and dried him quickly; it's a task better done by an old woman, more seemly.  My boy stirred a little at my touch, a flush to his face that wasn't fever.  I stroked his cheek.

"It's only me, my bab.  Sure haven't I done this often enough before?"

He gave the weakest smile.  "But not since I grew hair down there…," he whispered.

"Tis nothing a married woman's not seen before."  I arranged a fresh towel to cover him.  "There sweeting… sleep now."

But I didn't need to tell him, he'd drifted away, but this time to wholesome sleep. 

I was wrapping him in a fresh sheet as she returned.  Immediately she came to take him from my arms – I let her.  She needed the comfort of his body leaning against her more than I.  Between us we swaddled the quilt around him.  I fetched fresh water and threw in more athelas.  The herb was not as sweet as formerly, but the air was freshened by it.  We bundled him onto his uninjured side, if you can call it that, and placed the bowl near his face.  He still coughed, but the dreadful rawness seemed lessened now the Dunadan had shared breath with him.

"Sleep," she told me, "I will watch him.  Nay…"  She cut short my protest, "I will wake you if there's need."

I sat in the armchair by the fire and realised how tired I was.  There was only the soiled blanket he'd been brought here with, but I took it anyway.  The smell of smoke was strong on it, but so was his scent and that was a comfort to me as I fell asleep.


	3. The Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The badly injured Faramir is brought there and his wounds tended by an old retainer and a beloved companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat AU vision of Tolkien's Middle-earth and use of non-canon events and OCs... there is no Eowyn here.

When I woke, the fire had burnt low.  There were still shards of broken chairs by the hearth.  I remember thinking, 'I must get wood brought up if we're to retain any furniture at all!'

She still sat with him propped against her, though she'd piled pillows to give him some ease as she lent back against the bed-board.  I became aware she was watching me over his sleeping head.  I started to stir myself.

"Don't trouble yet," she said, "It is not dawn."

I nodded, happy enough to watch him sleep.  His breathing was a little easier, still hoarse, but the coughing seemed less.  He stirred fitfully in his sleep, frowning with pain.

"Let me make him a draft," I whispered, "we need to get those wounds probed and properly stitched – and it would be better he slept through that."

She nodded.  I climbed stiffly from my 'bed'.  I'm not so used to sleeping rough these days, life has become too easy for me.  I threw the last of the chairs on the fire and prepared to set a pot over it.

"He told me who you are," she said.

"Aye?"  I choose not to acknowledge who she meant by 'he'.

"He told me that he recognised you at once," she persisted.

"Did he?"

"Of course!"

"I thought he would have forgotten me by now."  I shrugged and turned to the water, but I was gratified; I've never forgotten him, or ever will.

She snorted her scorn.  "He would not forget his friend – especially such a friend" – though she used the elven word – 'meleth', which truly means more than 'friend'.  

I turned to hide my smile.  It's a word I'm still known by; he had first given that to me as name many years ago… my Captain remembered!  I busied myself with herbs and water but she saw my blushes.  I was determined not to play the silly maiden.

"You known him of old then?"  I asked.  I tried to be as casual as I could as I poured hot water for the tea, then refilled the kettle to boil more without turning fully to look at her.

She nodded.  "He has often spoken of you.  I knew him long before he journeyed south to Gondor.  We are old friends."

"Yes," I said. 

There're many, unfamiliar with the Fair Folk, would be surprised just how many years hide behind those youthful, elven features.  "If you know the Dunadan that well, then I do know of you.   We spoke of much, while we were… travelling together.  Doubtless... you will have known the last king crowned in Minas Tirith?"

She inclined her head, "I knew of him, but we did not meet."

So – well over a thousand years old this one – I shook my head in wonder – can you doubt that Ar-Pharazon coveted their gift – to age so very, very slowly.  

My self, well I'm older than I look, as indeed is he.  I am not of the Dunadan's line, far from it, but my fore-bearers were of Numinorean stock and proud of it.  They inter-wed with like, that blood, though diluted, is still strong in us.  Even if I look in middle years I'm near eighty; not that I encourage such enquiries, it leads to jealousy.  I swear I've concocted youthfulness by herbs and potions.  Yes, and some of the fools believe me enough to pay good money for them!  

She interrupted my reverie.

"He was, is... very… fond of you."

I nodded; it was ever the best I could hope for.  He would never truly love me; his heart was given to the Elven Princess, she was his destiny.  I knew it from the beginning; that manner of love was not to be a part of what was between us.  Ours was a more… practical relationship.

"He was kind to me," I said.

"And you were more than kind to him."

I shrugged.  She wanted to know more about us, but wasn't about to ask directly – surprisingly, I felt I wanted to tell her, and it is something I've never told anyone.  But where do you begin tales like that?

I prepared the poppy-juice, with hen bane and mandrake; it really needed honey to make it palatable.  The kitchens should be stirring and the healers.  I would fetch from both what we needed.  I reached for the ivory slip on my chatelaine and wrote a few notes.  I saw her watch me with a quizzical eye.

"Yes.  I can write!" I said sharply "I may not be as he, but I am no unlettered peasant!"  

I confess I was harsher than I meant, but there are those 'ladies' at Court who look askance at me for no more reason than, they have inherited wealth and I was once a slave before becoming a bonded servant, and now 'have risen' to live by trade alone.  But my line I trace back beyond the time their ancestors scratched a living from dirt and whelped in pig-pens!

She merely smiled, amused at my outburst, but not scornful.  "There are those, Melleth, that look askance at me also."

I relaxed; to speak so was foolish of me, but as they say, pride has always been a 'family' failing!

"Your pardon Ma…" 

She frowned.  "…er, Ranger.  Come, let us get him to drink." I said.

In truth, our voices had already woken him.  His eyelids fluttered and his gaze came into focus, first on the room and then on her.

"My northstar…" he murmured.

At that a few points clicked home for me to.  His brother had been inclined to speak confidences to his old nurse, well – let's not put too fine a point on it – brag of his conquests in the town and rant about his father, was the main run of things.  Boromir knew all his secrets were safe with me, even the long standing affection he felt for the Horse-lord's son.  My sweet Faramir schooled his mouth far closer, only the direst need would cause him to share his thoughts with any but his brother, but - now and again - and this was the one of whom he'd made hesitant mention.  To the extent I knew how much she meant to him, by how he didn't speak of her directly.  But Boromir – he knew – so, I would have to be careful what I said.  A confidence given to me is a confidence kept forever.  But oh, ...the love in his eyes when he looked at her.  Her face was all tenderness now as she leaned in to kiss him.

"Ranger…? The draft…?"  I made to pass her the cup.  He shook his head.

"The wounds need looking at and your shoulder set.  Drink!"  she said, though her command was gentle.

"In a moment then – first we must speak." He struggled to raise his arm to touch her face, but the pain stopped him.

Honeyed or not, he needed to drink the medicine.  I poured some wine into the cup to try and take the bitter taste away.

"Come sweeting," I coaxed, "Drink, you'll have time enough to speak before you sleep, and even more time after!"

His gaze drifted to me; he smiled wanly.  "I thought it was you… but I've been drifting in dreams.  I felt I'd travelled along way away.   Then someone called me back…"

The ranger bit her lip.

"…it was warm and so comfortable where I was, but he called and I had to come.  Then the pain… came back…" he faltered.

She held him as tightly as she felt his scorched flesh could bear, as her eyes filled with tears.  I fetched more hot tea for them.

"Hush sweeting.  Come drink the tea now, but you must have the poppy-draft after."

He nodded, and between us we got him to sip the hot drink.  I put more athelas into a bowl of boiling water and set it beside the bed.

He sniffed, "I know that smell.  I tasted it on… he looked at her in confusion.

"He breathed healing into you," she said softly.

Whether he knew exactly what had happened I doubted; he had been so near to leaving this world when the Dunadan had bid him stay.  It is something I have seen him do before, but that was so many years ago – all my memories flooded back.  Now there were tears in my eyes too!

I busied myself fussing over the fire and fresh water while they murmured together.  Breakfast, yes, that's what we needed, and a healer.  I sniffed and rubbed my face dry with my hand.

"Come Master Faramir," I adopted my sternest voice, "now is time for your medicine."

He almost laughed.  "Yes, Mistress," he said softly, then to her, "My amah was always fearfully strict…"   She smiled back at me.  "… she would beat my brother and I."

"Nonsense," I said, "you only had a clout when you needed it, and it was more often your brother than you!"

"That's because I didn't get caught!"

He dipped his head as the coughing took him again; his whole body was wracked by it, leaving him weak and gasping.  This wouldn't do.

While she held him I coaxed the draft past his lips, bitter as it was.  It would take some ten to twenty minutes, then the second, stronger anodyne when he was relaxed enough not to struggle against it.

"I'll give you some time together," I said, "I need to fetch clean cloths and supplies."

I briefly pressed my hand to his forehead, still fevered.  She pressed her hand to mine.

"I would hear more of you and the Dunadan," she whispered, "be assured, he has never forgotten you."

I nodded quickly and left the room.  Closing the door behind me, I leant against the cool stone of the corridor.

'He has never forgotten me – never forgotten me.'  You don't know how those words made my heart skip – but, if he was come here at last, could I bear to stay here too?  My mind was all confusion as I hurried down the stairs to the healer's kitchen.


	4. A First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The badly injured Faramir is brought there and his wounds tended by an old retainer and a beloved companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat AU vision of Tolkien's Middle-earth and use of non-canon events and OCs... there is no Eowyn here.

My bairn slept in her arms.  The anodyne I'd got him to breathe only needed a few minutes to take all the senses away.  I sat and watched them while we waited for the healer.

"Tell me when you first met the Dunadan," she said.  

More to distract herself than anything, I suspect.   The memory was ever vivid to me.  I could still see him in the shadows, not so much his face, not at first; his green hood had kept him hidden.  Only later did I look straight into those grey eyes.  Where to start?

"There was a beautiful coat, made of soft, white wool with a fur-lined hood, one of those useless city things, and I wanted it desperately.  That's how I first met him; he watched me steal it."

We were in some country inn in a dirt-poor village in the middle of nowhere, Bree I think it was.  Of course I didn't realise he was watching me.  I thought he slept on the bench while his companions rested by the fire.  The tap-room had its usual quota of travellers too mean, or too poor, to pay for a proper bed.  I certainly was too poor, and some silly bitch had left a beautiful coat hanging in the public hall; she deserved to lose it.  

I'd noticed him earlier, though he and his companions made themselves as inconsequential as possible, sitting in the shadowy corner of the large room.  The regulars choose to ignore them, they weren't looking for trouble.  Some visitors, like me, were curious, but then I knew who, or rather what they were - a ranger, newly made by the stiffness of his boots and cloak – and two elves. Oh, they kept their hoods up to hide their faces and wrapped themselves in their cloaks, but… when you've met an elf once, you don't mistake them again."

She nodded, then shrugged it off, "We are like you, but unlike you.  You have met many of my kind before?"

"My father traded with the Avari from the north, east of the mountains."

Her eyes widened in surprise, although she said nothing.

My father was a leather worker, not a common cobbler; he made harness and gear, scabbards belts, buff-coats and such.  Once a year he travelled the Great East Road, then north, to trade for skins and furs with the Wood-Elves.  We took spun wool and metal ingots.  He'd found long before that elven goods were better than any he could bring them, but materials – they'd rather trade with him than the dwarves who held the mines.  He took my elder brother, the journeyman and apprentices, and myself as cook.  My mother wasn't pleased, it could be dangerous, but I begged and pleaded to go; after the first time, my father had been far happier with my cooking than that of my brothers!

"They must have been long and hazardous journeys for a young girl," she said.

"Sometimes it seemed so, but I was pleased to get away, to see new places.  He was careful – if rangers were travelling he's invite them to camp with us, repair their gear; give them new belts or whatever they needed.  So he established a bond and we'd often have a ranger or two travel part of the way.  They taught me to use a bow and a quarter-staff – for their amusement maybe, but I insisted if they tutored my brothers in how to fight, and use a blade, they had to include me too.  Sometimes they'd just pass the night with us in the wild; sometimes they'd stay with us for several days depending on where they were going; we never asked their business.  And the Avari would find us; sometimes we'd get a message of orcs being abroad and we'd wait for the Elves to come to us, or they'd tell us to go back until the danger had passed.  I learnt I could pull a man's small bow, I've never been a good shot, but if you fire at a mass you're bound to hit something, it was good enough.  If I have to fight I'm better with a blade and a knife, close up."

She nodded approval of that; she has the look of someone who knows only to well what real fighting means.

"Where we could, we stopped at settlements or farms.  He'd make gear and trade; the apprentices, my brother and I would do repairs, then I'd have a few hours free.  Make a little trade myself."

She smiled encouragingly.

"I've an eye for skill.  When someone has a knack of doing something well and a yen for something different, there's always a trade to be done – embroidery for carved horn hair-pins, glass buttons for good ribbon – there's always something.  Father encouraged me – truth was I think he was quite proud I'd learnt to be a trader."

"You were with your father in Bree?"

"No – in Bree I was on my own, heading south.  We had a falling out - and I left…"

I let that hang in the air.  It wasn't altogether with pleasure I remembered some of this.  Those trips – that first summer, there was an apprentice, a beautiful boy from Harlindon, of northern stock he'd been sent to my father to learn a trade, and of his roots and family in Arnor, scattered as we were.  We were young – I was fifteen, too young for love, but out in the wilds one thing leads to another.  We were careful, my father never knew, and if my nearest brother did, he kept quiet.  I was heart-broken when, after we got back, he left me and proposed to another girl, small, pretty, demure.  It taught me a lesson.  There are skills a woman can learn that men want.  So I used men – and being young and naïve, was used by them.  It's not something I regret, but I wouldn't council a girl to do likewise.  I suppose I was wilful and found a way to get things I thought I wanted – no matter, it's of no consequence.  Over the years I've been called a whore and a thief – the whore I deny; what I've done, I've done to survive; as often as not, for a meal and a bed rather than sleep outside in the cold.  The thief – well, that's a bit different – I did what I had to, to live - but I've never stolen off those that would miss it!

I made several trips to the east in summer, and in winter we made trips westward, to the sea.   I learnt about setting up camps and fires, cooking and cleaning game, I learnt woodcraft and how to trade, not least that, if need be, I could sometimes trade with men something a woman has that I didn't value over much.  I'm not pretty, never have been; jaw too wide, nose too long, eyes a non-descript green, when clear grey are prized; hair tawny brown, when dark lustre is considered beautiful. At my best I was 'interesting', as they say.  I never had a quick tongue to charm, and I was too independent for many.  I liked to talk to men of men's things, leatherwork, and drinking, and hunting, not gossip from the dairy.  I walked my own road, or so I thought, but my parents had different ideas.  

There was a baker in our settlement, a widower with three children.  He saw I was strong and capable, and felt he could overlook a hint of 'reputation' for a good worker to raise his children and breed more.  My parents weren't to be persuaded differently; they set the wedding plans.  I stormed, I wept and pleaded – in the end there was nothing to do but leave.  I wasn't going to marry a fat baker twice my age.  So, as the one I came to know as the Dunadan journeyed north, I was on my path south, and we met at the inn at Bree.

"And you wanted a pretty coat?" she said.  There was a hint of scorn there, or so I imagined, which made me nettle.

"I had my reasons!"

At that point the healer came, and I didn't need to explain myself.  My sleeping bairn was still in her arms, but I couldn't stop myself stroking the damp hair from his face.  The anodyne had taken his senses completely, which was a good thing.  His wounds had been left untreated too long; now the edges would need to be cut before they could be stitched.  It's something I have done, but it was better done by someone properly trained – so I thought.  This healer was not as experienced as I, not at this sort of thing - and the ranger, well her skills were different.  

The healer set his shoulder well enough, but he came with the usual sharp steel blades.  They are good, but not for such fine work as this needed.   I made him wait and I fetched my _mornivren_ blades.  They're something my father traded for, and prized so highly he kept what he could get for himself.   These elven blades are made from what looks like black glass, but are so sharp, more than any edge I've ever seen.  The Avari would trade with my father perhaps one a visit – I took three with me when I left home.  I'm sure he will have got replacements by now.  They could only be made in small pieces, they told us, too small to use as a weapon, except in dire need at close quarters, but they were sharper than any surgeon's knife.  I found for healing, they worked best if you boiled them, to make them hot, before you used them, the wounds seemed to knit better; without corrupting; I'd learnt that in my time in Harad.  

Even after all these years I can still peel a single layer of skin off with them.  Of course, it's easier if the thing to be skinned isn't wriggling and screaming, but that's as maybe… I've had need to extract information from the unco-operative… it's not noble, but sometimes…  As I said - I'm not proud of all I've done in the past.

She watched me like a hawk.  If he had but twitched I know I would be dead at her hand now, but for the wounds to heal the edges must have the blood to knit together.  A dried wound won't heal without a great knot of scarring; then the muscles won't work properly because it pulls.  He would still have scars but they would be the least I could make them.  I shaved the inside of the gashes as finely as I could; then helped the healer stitch them with my curved needles.  Something else I'd learned that was useful to have – those I bought back from Harad.  Their healers are very skilled; it was from one of them, one I was enslaved to, that I learnt the trick of using hot blades – I don't know why, but they do work better.  

We wrapped fresh bandages round the wounds as he began to stir.  I held the bottle of anodyne beneath his nose to give us that little extra time.  He relaxed again; it makes the head ache very badly, but that's better than being awake when this sort of thing needs to be done.  And there was still the chance I'd be doing a lot more of this in the next few days – or maybe I'd use one of the blades on my own throat if things – if things went poorly.  There are times you have to consider such matters – I had seen what orcs leave behind them.

"You were going to tell me why you needed a useless coat"

"I wasn't," I said, "And it wasn't useless; I needed it to trade."

She just cocked an eyebrow and I felt - obliged - to continue.  

"Half a day's walk from the inn was a farm – I'd traded my good cloak for food there.  I knew the farmer's wife would be taken by a pretty, white coat she'd have no occasion to wear, and I wanted my own cloak back."

"Is that why you left the silver coins there?" she asked.

"How did you know?"

"I was the other Elf wrapped in a cloak."

I was speechless.  All this and she knew all along!

"Did you not wonder why he didn't raise the others?"

I confess, I had wondered.  I'd crept over to the pegs, reached down the coat – aye, and hung a little bag with the few silver coins the landlord had paid me for scrubbing his kitchens out – then as I turned, I looked straight into his eyes - and he into mine.   I stood transfixed.   He looked so very sad and alone; if those eyes can steal your soul… then at that moment I was utterly lost… but – enough of that.

"You told him not to speak?"  I asked.

"You had made a transaction, it wasn't up to us to interfere – we had business elsewhere." she shrugged.

 Faramir murmured and her attention went to him as he stirred.  I went to make a drink for him; willow-bark to soothe the headache.  I was half-tempted to take some myself – my past and what I chose to tell could become a game of cat and mouse – between what Estel might have told her, what she'd guessed, and even seen for herself so it seemed.

Anyway, the farmer's wife was pleased enough to trade my plain wool cloak for a fancy piece of cloth.   I wish her luck of it; she won't have it now.  My cloak on the other hand, it's faded but I have it still.  It was made by the wood-elves of the north, the Avari; lichen-green, stone-grey, smoke-blue, they are all in the weaving of it.  Warm and so light, you can wrap yourself in it and walk like a ghost before men's eyes; I'd never intended leaving it behind me – I just needed to earn enough to buy it back – because, I only steal when I have to.


	5. The Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The badly injured Faramir is brought there and his wounds tended by an old retainer and a beloved companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat AU vision of Tolkien's Middle-earth and use of non-canon events and OCs... there is no Eowyn here.

"Use the pommel – a weapon has two ends!  Now, stamp on his head – he's down – keep him there!"

Boromir gritted his teeth, stamped in the dirt and whirled to face his pursuer.  He slashed down, but found his arm blocked.

"Use your fist!"

A clout to the side of the head made his ear ring.  Angered, he lashed out wildly, encountering empty space.  He yelled and kicked out – only to have his heel caught firmly and pulled hard.  Suddenly – he was on his back in the dust; the breath knocked out of him.  A foot came into contact with his ribs, not hard, enough for him to feel it.  He flipped himself over, stabbing at the leg.  The wooden blade slide off the leather buff-coat protecting his amah's thigh; he collapsed, face down in the dust, and got a playful kick up the backside, adding insult to injury.

"Good try – but if you hadn't kicked so high, you wouldn't be on your back in the first place!"

She leant down to help him, but his twelve year-old's sore pride made him shrug her off.

"Are you all right Boromir?"    
  


Faramir's anxious enquiry made it even worse.  Boromir winced, to have his little brother see him bested by a woman was an added insult - and she was his servant! – No, he admitted, it wasn't that – it was that she'd done it so easily; when the Master at Arms had nothing but praise for him.

She clapped a hand on his shoulder.  "Once again, then we'll have a rest."

"Can I try, Amah? said Faramir eagerly

"You're too young to fight!" Boromir announced loftily.  He received a gentle, admonishing shake.

"Warriors are never too young to fight," she said quietly, "they just learn different lessons."

Eagerly, Faramir jumped up from the rug on the grass.  He wasn't much above his elder brother's elbow, but he was ready for battle!

"Soon, sweeting," said his amah, "just let me take your brother through his last move – then you can see what you can do, eh?"

He sighed and slumped back down to his book.  In truth, he preferred his journal and drawings to toy swords, but the rough and tumble did look fun.  Boromir, the Steward's heir drew himself up to his full twelve year-old stature and faced his amah with a scowl.  She ignored his sulk.

"First – you kicked too high.  The thigh is muscle, it will absorb the shock.  Aim for the knee."

She brought her bare foot up to demonstrate.

"And don't use the toe; use the edge or the heel.  If you're closer…" she grabbed his shoulders," you can aim higher, but use _your_ knee."

She brought her knee up to the height of his groin.  Boromir flushed and tried to back away.  "…Only come this close if you're holding off their blade, or you've rid them of it."

Suddenly, he brought his wooden blade up sharply, putting his weight behind an upper-cut that thumped against her ribs.  Swiftly, she brought her head down to clash with his forehead.  Pain stunned him for a moment.  She spun him round, kicked the back of his knee, forcing him to crumple; one hand grabbed his hair, yanking his head back; she pressed her wooden practise knife to his throat.

Faramir's eyes were round with wonder.  Boromir stifled a cry, grimacing with pain.  His nurse and body-guard leaned down and planted a light kiss on the tip of his nose.  He struggled free, angrily rubbing his face with his sleeve.

"Amah!   Don't…"

She grinned broadly

"Too grown for kisses, my bab?"

She was laughing; he hated it when she laughed at him.  He scowled harder.

"Master Bethil says a warrior is above street-fighting", he pouted, "He says only women kick and hair-pull!"

Her face became serious, "Bethil is a fool," she snapped, "you fight to survive."   She dropped to one knee in front of him, grasping him by the shoulders.

"In battle, there are no rules. – You kick, you gouge, you punch, bite, anything - you do what you have to, to stay alive – never forget that," she gave him little shakes for emphasis, "You – stay - alive!"

  


She gathered him to her in a quick hug, before rising to her feet.

"Now - teach Faramir the points of vulnerability."

Faramir came to his feet swiftly, eager for his turn.  Boromir pointed his wooden dagger at him. 

"Eyes, throat, belly, groin.  Not directly into the ribs, the blade will bounce off; either under them and up to the heart, or…" He paused to change his grip, "down through the front of the shoulder if they're not armoured…"

"And…?" She questioned.

"Oh… under the armpit!"

He seized Faramir's arm, lifted it high and poked the hollow with his dagger.  Faramir giggled; he pulled down his arm trapping the blade.  Boromir planted a heavy hand onto his chest and pushed him backwards.  Faramir staggered back; lip jutting determinedly, he launched himself forward, tackling Boromir round the waist with one arm, swinging his play-dagger wildly with the other.

"Good", she called, "but put your hand higher – and aim for his belly with your blade…"

She broke off abruptly.

The Steward and two of his secretaries watched the tussling boys with an air of disdain.  Denethor strode over to them with a measured pace.

"Boromir, Faramir – your father comes," she said calmly, dropping a curtsey.  

The boys righted themselves, breathless and grinning.  She straightened; her face a mask.

"My sons – rolling in the dirt like village whelps?" His tone was icy.

"They were learning about combat."

One secretary tutted; loudly enough to be heard.

"Knives?" The Steward made the word an accusation.

"My Lord – even now, sometimes they will need to defend themselves"

"The Master at Arms will teach them bow and sword – you, you're teaching them to brawl like cut-throats."

She coloured a little.

"…Such conduct is unseemly for my sons."

"Such conduct may yet keep them alive, my lord!"

She looked him straight in the eye before dropping her gaze, but her acquiescence was surly.  He took a step closer, so only she could hear him.

"Don't try my patience Mistress!"

Her head went up.  "My lord – and his lady – knew of my skills – and were happy enough to use them in the past."

"Times were different"

"Times my lord, are always the same for assassins and thieves.  I would have these boys able to defend themselves – at all times – even with their bare hands."

He looked like he might have struck her.  His shoulders stiffened in anger, but she stood her ground.  After a moment, he spoke with quiet venom.

"You – are here because my late wife willed it.  You stay – because I grant you leave – never forget that!"  He turned on his heel.

"Father…," began Boromir as his father brushed past him, "Father…," he said louder.

Denethor turned with a smile for his eldest son.

"Faramir was only playing…"

"I was learning to fight!" declared Faramir.

Denethor smoothed Boromir's hair lingeringly, letting his hand dawdle down the boy's back.  The children's amah took a step closer to the pair of them.  Denethor folded his hands into his sleeves.

"You, my son, will soon learn to fight like a warrior… Faramir…"

Faramir turned an eager face to his father.

"… leave Faramir to learn to fight like a woman!"

The small boy's face fell and his lip trembled.

  


Denethor swept away from the courtyard, the secretaries scurrying in his wake.

Boromir took his brother's hand reassuringly.  

"He only meant until you're bigger."

Faramir looked up gratefully into his brother's eyes, not noticing the baleful glare his nurse gave to his father's retreating back. – but Boromir did.  He looked away, realising his father disliked the woman, and that the feeling was mutual, but not bothering to puzzle out why.  She was their amah – she always would be.  He smiled at Faramir.

"Shall we show you again?"

"Later, my bairn…," she said; her tight-lipped anger still directed at Denethor's back.

Faramir tugged her skirt for attention.

"Is it bad to fight like a woman? he asked.

She stooped to cuddle him to her.  "Not if it keeps you alive, my bab, not if it keeps you alive!"

Drowsily, Faramir groped his way from the drug-induced dreams.  He was stiff and sore and his head ached.  He was grateful the lights were dimmed as he blearily tried to focus on the room.  He stirred in the bed and winced.

"You're back with me then?" teased a soft voice he knew well.  

His Ranger stretched a warm arm about his shoulders and eased him up on the pillows.  He smiled at her, filled with that wave of happiness that only she could bring him.

"I was dreaming," he said, "I dreamt of the first lesson we had in real fighting."  He sighed, taken by the memory.  

She smoothed the hair from his forehead.

"Of all your battles, you dreamt of the very first…," she murmured.

He nodded. "We had bruises, and we both ached, myself and… Boromir," his face fell in an instant.  

She bit her lip and clasped him hard enough to make him wince before she realised it.

"Oh my Gil-forod," he lent against her for a moment, before straightening his back into the pillows.  "She told us to do anything to survive – she said that the most important thing about fighting was staying alive – I never altogether realised that until now…" 

His voice trailed away as the sedatives in his body took him again to drowsiness.  

She kissed his temple, grateful that he was warm and living, grateful he was still here – with her.  The tears that slowly gathered in her eyes were a mix of joy and pain, as she held her beloved, and silently mourned his brother.


	6. Hope and Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The badly injured Faramir is brought there and his wounds tended by an old retainer and a beloved companion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat AU vision of Tolkien's Middle-earth and use of non-canon events and OCs... there is no Eowyn here.

She still held him in her arms.  He, sleeping - she in that strange reverie of the Elves – 'walking in memories' – is how one of them described it to me.

 I don't know whether it must be a blessing or a curse for them to remember every event of their lives; I certainly have memories I would do without!  But there are others I dearly wish were clearer – and even some I rehearse in my head so I don't lose them entirely; though often these have come down to little more than a single image to cherish.  Sound, and smells, especially smells will bring a memory back unlooked for, some good, some ill…  Forges and quenching iron, the smell of those bring thoughts I'd rather forget.  The mere smell makes my bad foot cringe.  It is fortunate indeed that we cannot remember pain.  Oh we remember something _being_ painful – but we don't recall the actual sensation itself – or no woman would ever bear more than one child!  Even though Estel had used his skills to help the scars, my foot still remembered the vicious beating.  When we journeyed together in the past, I had scarcely limped after a while, but now – now it stiffens again; first thing in the morning and when I'm tired I hobble like an old woman.  But then – I am an old woman to some eyes.

My bairn would be able to carry his injuries lightly I hoped, but while the damage that his father had tried to inflict on his body would heal – that to his mind might take longer.  I had long cursed Denethor and I did not hesitate to curse him again – if ever there was a damaged man it was him.  I dare say he more deserved my pity than my anger – but, just like him – I saw no reason to forgive perceived slights easily.  One thing I was curious about; how much did the elf-maid know?  Would my bab have told her all of his father's vices?  Did he even know of them?  But then most of the vices of Lord Denethor's youth were before Faramir was born, or at least, when his sons were still small children – and my Lord was very, very discreet.  Even as his sons grew to become young men, his appetites had lessened.  His interests became diverted by matters of power – indeed, that is what it had always been about for him – power.  Lady Finduilas, he put on a pedestal and worshipped; his cravings he took elsewhere.  But then he was no different than many young blades of the city.  He was educated by the depravity of some early companions, young men with too much time and money on their hands, whose father's bought them out of military service and placed them in a city capable of catering for any whim.

The sinks and stews of Minas Tirith  provided all the… victims, there's no other word for it, which he needed.  He didn't want them that often, and in between, imported whores who could be paid off to mind their bruises when they were sent packing, sufficed.  It was the young ones I felt sorry for.  When I could, I made enquiries and if I found them – they 'conveniently' disappeared to Pelargir, or beyond.  Anyway, a second time, and they knew what was going to happen and he didn't like them to be fearful – not to begin with – that he saved till later.  Injuries were never life-threatening or caused much permanent damage, at least not to the body - but it wasn't pretty.  Not that I'm supposed to know, but I made it my business to find out.  He liked them very young – girls or boys – he could use either; which is why Lady Finduilas insisted I came back and stay in Minas Tirith this time.  Not that she believed he would ever harm his sons, but – call it a precaution… just in case.  

As I said, it was an appetite he grew out of; I suspect eventually he took more pleasure in denying himself than in indulging his urges in the end – control and power – that was Lord Denethor. I can only go by what I was told; I was absent from court for ten years or more after my bairn's had grown to young men.  They both would seek me out occasionally; as a pensioned loyal servant why should they not?  That I should be able to tell them of my journeys south to Harondor, or north along the sea-coasts, and the useful things I learnt and brought back, along with the herbs and spices, was something between us – and their father.

She stirred as I watched her.

"You travel far in your thoughts," she said.

I jerked back to reality – of course, she would know I was there, even with her mind treading a different path.

"Just memories, Ranger – just memories."

She nodded, "Are they not the most important part of us?"

She eased my Lord Faramir out of her arms.  His head fell back onto the pillow, bone-less enough to show it was still the drugs made him sleep.  She frowned. 

I hastened to speak, "He'll drift from one to the other soon – into proper sleep."

She turned to me, "He has already woken briefly".

"Good, that's good."

"He said he dreamt of you, the first time you taught him to fight."

I smiled, it was something I remembered, one of those memories that are bittersweet.  The boys were eager, but their father spoilt the moment.  He never forgave Faramir for his wife's death.  Stupid, not the bairn's fault, but Lord Denethor had to have a scapegoat and it was his younger son.  He had adored my Lady, worshipped her; she was in his eyes, perfection – which may be why he'd rather fuck a boy than view her body 'marred' by pregnancy – but then… that was no excuse for the young girls he used so roughly in between.  I suppose it was so he'd never see her flesh bruised or bloodied by his passion.  Certainly, she told me herself, at first he used her so daintily, she scarce thought she'd been touched!  Even in the fullness of their marriage he treated her like precious glassware – afraid she might break beneath him.  Aye, but then there were some he did break, so perhaps she had the best of it after all.

I must be tired; my thoughts drift.  The Ranger watched me silently.  I did not feel I could discuss this with her.  If she knew, she knew, but I doubted it.  As I said, Lord Denethor was very discreet; only his closest body servants knew – and me – because I make it my business to find out.  Knowledge is power in its own right, and I'm a good collector of 'knowledge'.

"Will you go and talk to the Dunadan?" she said.

I didn't answer.

"He wants to talk to you."

"Does he?"

"He wants you to stay here."

"I… I don't know that I can."

She reached out to lightly touch my arm, a rare gesture.  They'll not touch strangers without considered thought; this I know from the Avari.

"He has missed you… your company…"

Having sworn I would behave fittingly, this silly old fool found her eyes flooded with tears!  I turned away and made a fuss of poking the fire and putting more water to boil – not that it was needed.  Again, I felt her hand on my sleeve.

"Come, talk with me.  There are matters I should say to you."

My bairn stirred in his sleep, and murmured her name.  She was at his side in an instant, to smooth his hair from his face and whisper something in her tongue that seemed to soothe him.  She sat at his side, taking his hand in hers and stroking it lovingly as she smiled at him.  After a few moments he settled and she turned to me.

"As you have been to Faramir and his brother, so I have been to Estel, not birthing-woman that is true – but I have known him, guided him, taught him his first weapons, helped him with his first pony.  I know him and love him."

I nodded.  He had spoken of a good friend among the elves of his boyhood.

"I know," she continued, "about his destiny, I think sometimes clearer than he does. He will marry Arwen.  She will be his queen, and the mother of his children, but there is more in his heart than that."

I nodded without speaking; in my youth I might have wished, hoped, for different, but I knew he would never put any before his elven princess.  Though I'd never seen her, I had hated her with a passion – foolish of me, but then I had been very young. 

The Ranger continued. "She is his destiny.  She was his light in the wilderness, but eternal starlight is distant, while brief flames warm the hand – She will give him joy, but he was always happiest in the wilds.  He loves to travel in freedom, you know that; and he still has battles to fight where he will need faithful friends at his side."

I nodded.

"The Court will become stifling to him – he needs you.  He needs you to be there so he may come and talk of old journeys; maybe even ride out again for a day or two with a few companions."

"They will not let the King do that!"

"Exactly!  His courtiers have never been Rangers.  His chamberlain's will never have felt that freedom.  Though he will do his duty – it will come to choke him.  He will need release – and part of that will be you." 

I stared at her, "Me?"

"You make him happy.  Love takes different shapes; his love for Arwen is noble and true and has sustained him for many years, because they are destined for each other.  His love for you… is different."

"…Love?"  I whispered, "Does he…?"

"He may not know it, but I do," she shrugged.  "It was what he didn't say about his travels that had a core of truth.  It is just different – like his love for Boromir, or for Halbarad…"

"Halbarad – is he come?"

"He… has left us.  He fell on the field."

"Dead…"  

My heart lurched; it had been years ago – one of those arrangements made when you can't get what you want, so you take the nearest thing to it.  He'd loved me more than I him, and it was I who left – but to hear of his death was still a shock.  We had clung together for a couple of years till we both admitted we were only together because neither of us could have the one we wished for.  I had travelled south again, knowing Estel had taken service in Gondor, knowing I'd not be able to resist looking for him.

"Do you not think that it is more than chance your paths have crossed so often?" she said.  "Again and again – you may not be meant to be together, but he needs you."

"I… have been happy in his company," I said carefully.

"Then let him be happy in yours, and at the thought he has another old friend near him – these times are still not certain.  The darkness has not passed and still may prevail."

"We cannot give up hope…"

"No – and Hope does not give us up."

Faramir sighed, his hand stirred under hers and her attention was back to him.  He would wake very soon.  I stood and tended the boiling water.  He would be thirsty, a warm drink would soothe his throat – and seeming to be busy gave me a chance to collect myself.  Though I had loved others and been loved in return, it was always to him my thoughts returned – maybe because he was far beyond my reach.  My mother always said I wanted Ithil on my apron strings – not that I've ever worn aprons much!  He'd taken a piece of my _fea_ when he first looked into my eyes all those years ago in Bree – as much as I'd kept a small piece of him,  It was a strange talisman, small and private, but one I treasured in secret.  Yes, a leather-worker's skills can come in handy – macabre though many would consider the small fragment of fine leather I keep in a locket that is always with me – not that I'd ever tell him about that!.  

Later, after I was sure my bab was recovering from the anodyne, I went to my Lady's garden.  I knew the Ranger would not leave his side and I only planned to be a half hour or so.  I needed a space without people, somewhere to think.  I had not realised I'd left the door unlocked, not that anyone would bother entering this semi-wild patch of ground.   The night was very bright, I barely needed the small lantern I'd brought with me; everything was edged with silver.  Someone had seen that the place did not become entirely overgrown when I was away from Minas Tirith.  I suspect Faramir had seen his mother's garden was  not allowed to go totally to ruin, although it had been left wild and unplanted save for those flowers and herbs that seeded themselves where they might.  One of the early roses had grown right over the edge of the wall, hanging a banner of crimson and green over the stones; I could smell the scent, heavy on the night air, as I entered.  The old stone bench was still there, positioned to look out to the west.  Old ghosts were there too, old memories in the moonlight.  My feet scuffed on broken sea-shells as I took a seat, more victims of Lord Denethor's wrath I thought wryly. 

I didn't hear steps behind me, but I felt someone.  My hand slid to the knife I wear inside my pocket, of old it was better concealed, than explain why a house-servant should carry a fighting blade.  I had it from its sheath and at my side when a soft voice said, "Melleth."  

I spun to face him, blade high in front of me.  It all but rested on his chest as he stood, hands out from his side palms up, smiling.

"I'm pleased to see you still know how to wield a weapon – but perhaps your hearing isn't what it might be?"  He mocked me with a quizzical smile.

"If I hadn't known it was you, you'd have an extra mouth in your throat by now!" I snapped.  

He just laughed.  Knocking my blade to one side, he gathered me up in a great hug, "It is good to see you, my Melleth!"

I could scarce breath he hugged me so tightly, but truth be told – I didn't care!   The two of us stood like foolish youngsters, not moving; wrapped in each others arms as the full face of Ithil smiled down on us.  We stood there long enough for me to shiver when the breeze chased through the trees.

"You're cold," he said, "let me fetch a cloak."

"No!  …You don't need to go…"  I felt foolish as a silly girl.

He laughed softly and kissed my forehead.  "Wait here."  

And he'd gone.  I sat on the bench trembling like an Aspen, 'why not?' I told myself, 'the night is turning cold' and… even I didn't believe me!

He returned shortly with a cloak, a blanket and a bottle of good wine. 

"There are no cups, but we can share…"  He pulled me down to the bench wrapping us both in the cloak.

"Where did you get that?" I demanded.

"The cloak…?   It's mine. From Lorien…"

"No – The wine!"

"I raided the Steward's cellars – or at least I found some soldiers who had, so I confiscated a few bottles – for medicinal purposes of course."

"And now is the time I could use that medicine!"  I took a good pull at the bottle before handing it back.  "Won't they miss you?" I said.

"Not for half an hour, and if they do… Everyone knows Mistress Melleth was Lord Denethor's spy in Harad..."

I all but choked, "They most certainly do not!  …Do they?"

He hugged me again and kissed my ear before he whispered, "Only a few, and those few will not tell – or if they do it will be the last thing they say."

"And I'll see to that!" I growled.  My 'work' was supposed to be a secret.

"It is still a secret…"

Sometimes, even now, I swear he could read my mind.

"…only the highest placed know that there's more to the fierce old amah than a bad-temper," he teased.

I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow.  He winced and held my arms close.  It was from more pain than the force of my elbow warranted.

 "Are you hurt?"

"We fought a battle."

How stupid of me!  Of course he was hurt - at the very least bruised if not…  I struggled in his arms, but he held me fast.

  

"No, I am not injured, no more than cuts and bruises.  I don't need a nurse.  I need a few minutes quiet with an old friend, that's all – now stay still and keep me warm!."

I did as I was bid; it was no hardship to sit quietly with his arms resting around me.

"Estel… tell me where you got the elven cloak – and tell me truthfully, what happened ...to Boromir."

He insisted on cutting some brush and laying it as a field bed, in truth the stone bench was not the most comfortable place to sit.  We settled down with the cloak around us – I think the brush was as much to give him time to think as anything else.  Then, he told me everything – the Hobbits, the Ring, Lorien, and how my poor brave lad came to grief, knowing himself doomed and not able to stop it – By the time he was finished we both wept openly.  A strange thing about tears, sometimes they are a thing that possesses as much healing as the most complex of medicines.  We finished the wine off between us – and the next thing it was the pale light before dawn – and one of his Rangers came to wake us.  I might know they would not leave him unattended; they must have guarded the door.  The man I did not know, but he didn't seem surprised to find his captain with a strange woman – he even bowed courteously

"I must go," Estel said to me, "We'll talk again soon."  And he was gone.

I made my way back to the library to see my bairn, feeling guilty that I had neglected him – only when I got there did I realise, I wasn't limping!. 

He was sleeping sweet as a child when I arrived; she was still at his side.

"I see you have spoken to him then," she said, as she reached up and plucked a rose petal from my hair. "Will you be staying?"

I nodded, and I believe I had the grace to blush – before I hurried off to make us all some tea!   There were still hard times to come, the battle was not over, the war was far from won, but for now at least I could feel some small content.

The future - what ever it might be - would be another story.


End file.
